I don’t understand.
It takes fifteen seconds to send a text message.
(And it really shouldn’t take two years to tell someone you love them.)

Yes I know that your phone has battery problems,
that you take a lot of naps at inconvenient times,
and that school is oh so very time consuming

And I was an English major, but at this point I don’t even care
if you use proper grammar
But I’ll have you know, it took me fifteen seconds to type this next line:
And I typed it on my phone, just to make a point.

I spend about fifteen seconds (fifteen times a day)
wondering what you could possibly be doing right then,
in those fifteen seconds,
that keeps you way too busy to text me back.

Sometimes I imagine you’re dead in a car wreck,
when you suddenly show up at my door, two hours too late,
without sending a text out to say:

“hey I’m not dead, just got caught up singing show tunes in the shower”
or
“hey I’m asleep right now, but I’ll wake up in an hour and realize I’m two hours late, and forget to text you back in my mad rush for the front door.”

The best part is that I could send all of this to you—-in a text—
and the one reply I’ll get (if any) is not really a reply at all,
but some text-rant that has to do with those Pokemon cards
that your mother (probably) threw out back when you were ten.

(from THIS IS NOT POETRY, available on Amazon.com)

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